


Complex Machinery

by Gileonnen



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Electroactive Polymers, Loving Painplay, M/M, Maintenance as Foreplay, Robot Sex, Sexy Mechanical Vivisection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:53:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22040611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gileonnen/pseuds/Gileonnen
Summary: Saint-14 needs some basic maintenance, so Osiris opens him up--only to find that both of them enjoy the process more than they expected.
Relationships: Osiris/Saint-14 (Destiny)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 230





	Complex Machinery

Saint-14 lies sprawled on Osiris's antique rug, his chest plate off and his internal wiring exposed to the warm, drowsy air. Osiris can't help marveling at the artistry of it--the network of circuits and wires, nodes and valves is all the more fascinating for having been designed. He has to take a moment just to map everything with his eyes, tracking the pale blue lines of coolant and the smooth polymer muscles cording Saint's abdomen.

"What are you waiting for?" Saint demands. "I'm ready! Get your hands in me!" He cranes his neck, and his violet eyes gleam with some unknown emotion--exhilaration, perhaps, or anxiety. Osiris has never known Saint to be anxious.

"Only admiring your systems," says Osiris coolly. He eases apart some of the muscles and watches the way they twitch in answer, as though responsive to the faint electric charge of his body. _Electroactive polymers,_ he thinks. _This really is the stuff of the Golden Age._ "Rattling sound or no, your body is an incredible instrument. Efficient, powerful, and elegantly built."

He leans across Saint's chest to pick up his insulated forceps, and he feels more than sees the minute changes in Saint's physiology--the pulse of coolant as valves open; the clutch and tense of actuators. The whisper-soft opening of vents, and the rush of heat on his hand.

His own skin heats in answer. He swallows. "Indicate where you've felt this rattling," he says. "Point to the location for me."

Saint gropes across his own abdomen, fingertips settling under the flexible spinmetal struts of his lowest ribs. "Here," he says. "Whenever I stretch."

Osiris leans in, holding his breath so as not to fog up Saint's cooler surfaces, and gently pries up some of the muscles sheathing Saint's ribcage. They ripple at the touch, and Osiris lets them fall back. "Not enough insulation?" he asks.

"Sensitive," Saint manages, and his voice is sharp and strained. It makes a strange warmth coil in Osiris's gut. "Just--ah--ticklish?"

"Should I disable the receptors there?" Osiris asks.

"No. No. I was made to endure worse than this." But his arms are tense where they're folded behind his head, and his legs vibrate with strain.

 _He asked for this,_ Osiris reminds himself. Again, he pulls the muscle back, and again, he feels it shudder and tense in his hand. As Osiris stretches him and pins the muscles back with the forceps, Saint makes a sound like an indrawn breath. It is, Osiris thinks abstractedly, a beautiful sound.

Next, the ribs. Osiris had expected the problem to be a loose screw, but as he inspects each strut, he finds that each screw is still as tight as the day it was first driven home. Shining, countersunk, turning smoothly when he tests them; the faint smell of machine lubricant still rises as he exposes their threads and sets them aside on a clean cloth. "It's deeper than I thought," he says softly. He carefully unhooks the lowest rib and puts it with the screws.

Below the rib is a tangle of wires, sheathed in black and white and blue. They lie neatly bundled, and a part of Osiris longs to take them apart and chase each one to its corresponding port--ravel and unravel them until he learns how every fiber functions, how it connects to every circuit that comprises Saint-14.

With another pair of forceps, he pulls those wires back, too, leaving their bundles untouched. Beneath is a delicate interstitium of circuitry, a maze of thin metal and etched substrate that Osiris can barely bring himself to touch. He slides a pair of tweezers into the gap and begins to nudge the material aside, as delicately as though he is working with tissue paper. "Does this hurt?" he asks.

The caught sound that Saint makes is neither a yes nor a no.

"Does it hurt?" he asks again, and only then does he realize that Saint is hard beneath his trousers.

He sets his tweezers down and watches a measure of tension go out of Saint's body. "Is this a mechanical reaction?" he asks. "Crossed wires, perhaps?" His palm lights on Saint's hip, as close as he dares. Even that light touch sets his pulse racing. Surely Saint can feel it pounding against his chassis.

"No," says Saint. He reaches for Osiris and finds his hand, then grips it hard enough to hurt. His voice is rough, low, painfully earnest. "No, my friend. I want you. Tell me you want me."

Warily, Osiris brings Saint's hand to his lips. He kisses the tips of his fingers, the delicate joints, the smooth plane of his palm; he brushes his mouth over Saint's thumb, then slowly sucks it down. "Yes," Saint tells him as Osiris licks a long line from palm to tip. "Yes, more of this--"

"More of this?" Osiris asks. With his free hand, he grazes the exposed muscle over Saint's abdomen and feels it tremble in answer. "Or more of this?"

"More of that," Saint answers immediately, and Osiris doesn't hesitate--he plunges his hand in between strands of polymer, and Saint howls and rocks up against him.

Osiris climbs to his knees and moves to straddle Saint's hips. The hard line of his cock fits perfectly between Osiris's legs; the pressure of it aches, but even that physical gratification is nothing compared to the pleasure of seeing Saint undone beneath him. He reaches in deeper and feels coolant surging through duct lines, making them pulse against his hand. His fingertips graze a wire thin as spider silk, strong as rebar, and the merest touch makes Saint thrash and buck and cry out.

A jolt of exultation goes through him. He plies that nerve as though it's a cello string, now plucking, now sliding his fingers over it in a smooth glissando. Each touch draws a deeper sound from Saint, each time more ragged and primal, and a thrill goes through Osiris at the knowledge that each of those sounds is for him.

"Enough," says Saint at last, reaching up to steady Osiris's wrist. "Enough."

When Osiris bends down to kiss him, Saint cradles his head in both hands, and they roll their hips against each other until they've both spent themselves.

After a long moment, Osiris pushes himself back, and Saint lets him go. His arms fall back weakly against the rug, his fingertips still twitching as though with aftershocks.

There's a slight rattling sound as he moves. Osiris might not even have heard it, if every nerve hadn't been tuned to the sound of Saint's voice.

He reaches for the tweezers and dives in, nudging aside wire and polymer and substrate until at last he finds what he seeks: a wire cap, come loose from a twist of wires. "This was a patch job," he says as he sets it aside. "Probably from one of your earlier resets. The rest of these caps conform perfectly to the wiring."

Saint holds up the wire cap, then tosses it into the air and roars with laughter. "My friend, only you would have anything to say about engineering after making love!"

"Do you want me to seal you back up, or not?" Osiris asks.

Saint looks up at him, eyes bright with mirth. "Maybe ... maybe not yet."


End file.
